You were the calm in Franklin's storm. The one place where he could breathe, drop the weight of the streets, and just exist. You were building a life together—slow, steady, and now with a baby on the way.

Michael knew. He was one of the first to know, actually. Franklin had told him in a rare moment of vulnerability, pacing nervously outside Michael’s house with a cigarette he didn’t even smoke. And Michael… he got it. He understood what it meant to want something real in a world full of fake promises and bad deals.

So he helped.

He cleaned up behind Franklin. Took calls meant for him. Made up excuses when you asked why Franklin was out late.

—“He’s helping me with a business deal,” Michael would say, voice smooth. “You know, expanding legit now.”

You believed it. Because you wanted to. Because the man who kissed your forehead every morning and talked to your belly at night couldn’t possibly be involved in anything dangerous.

Franklin tried to walk straight—he did—but sometimes the old life pulled him back. A job here, a favor there. But he never let it touch you. Never let it even breathe near you. And Michael made sure of that.

To you, he was just the man who built the crib, who talked about preschools and saved every sonogram photo on his phone. He was your Franklin. Not the guy they whispered about in the streets.

And then one night, while you slept upstairs, Michael carried him in—blood on his shirt, stitches fresh, painkillers making his steps slow.

—“He’ll be fine,” Michael muttered as he laid him gently on the couch. “Took care of it.”

You never heard the door close behind Michael. You only found Franklin there the next morning, asleep on the couch, with your name still murmured on his lips.